


Knead Me

by pyrchance



Series: Bake Until Golden [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Phone Sex, Quarantine, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrchance/pseuds/pyrchance
Summary: Patrick is stewing in his own Valentine's misery when he gets the brilliant idea to call Pete.Asking him what he is wearing was a mistake, honestly.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: Bake Until Golden [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162865
Comments: 25
Kudos: 37
Collections: Be My Peterick Valentine 2021





	Knead Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically part of a series, but you definitely don't need to read the first part to understand this. If you want some gloriously domestic Pete though, I do recommend it.

Patrick can’t even really blame the phone call on quarantine.

Like sure, maybe he and Pete haven’t been seeing each other as much as they usually did, but since their first virtual performance the band has slowly been loosening the lockdown strings, enough so that they had even gotten _Andy_ to leave his Oregon bunker and fly down for a show. Beyond performances—and rehearsing for performances—their in-person meetings are still scarce, but not unheard of. It is still a little jarring every time Pete calls before he comes over, oddly polite and considerate given his long history of smashing through every one of Patrick’s boundaries.

But it isn’t Pete that starts the phone call to end all phone calls this time. It’s Patrick, sitting on his sofa with chip crumbs all over his chest, some distant clock ticking on towards morning as he scrolls through Netflix mindlessly.

His Netflix is bright pink. Despite the last movie he watched being a grisly true crime documentary, he’s staring at far too many squares with Ryan Gosling’s face on them. It hits him all at once that Valentine’s Day is this week, possibly even today, and he is sitting on his couch getting sour cream and cheddar flakes in his chest hair.

It would be a lie to say that Pete was the only person Patrick knew who would be up as late as him, but that’s the story he’ll stick with later.

Pete’s voice is low and mellow when he picks up the phone. Patrick tries to remember if it’s his weekend for the kids, but he’s fuzzy on if it’s even the weekend at all. Prior to right this minute, he hadn’t even been fully aware that it was February.

“Sup?”

Now that Patrick has Pete on the line, it’s hard for him to think of what to say. Should he start with the fact that he has finally gone a little mad thanks to quarantine? That this madness has hit him nearly a year after everyone else? That his Netflix queue has turned on him? That he sort of hates the emptiness of his big echoey house and kind of misses his ex and is half wishing he had called her instead? Except no—the moment he has that thought his rationality reminds him that he really, really doesn’t. That’s one bear trap he doesn’t want to stick his toe into.

“Patrick?” comes Pete’s inquisitive call.

Sighing deeply, tilting his head back against the couch, throwing an arm across his eyes, Patrick groans. “I just can’t do this anymore.”

There’s a moment of extreme silence over the phone. Patrick almost thinks he’s been hung up on, when a sudden bang makes him jump. It sounds like an oven door maybe. Pete’s grown surprisingly domestic over quarantine. Then—loud enough Patrick has no time to recover from the banging—Pete screeches, “ _What!_ ”

“Thanks. That’s my ear, asshole.” Patrick scowls holding the phone away from his head. Pete’s voice babbles out of it anyway.

“Fuck. Are you— Do you— What did you just say?”

“What? Pete?” Pete sounds like he’s panicking. Which is weird considering he sounded just fine when he picked up the phone. Patrick quickly runs back what he just said, realizes just how melodramatic he was being, and blanches. “Not like that! Sorry. I just mean— That’s not what I meant. That come out wrong.”

Pete sharp exhale crackles over the phone. “Jesus _Christ_ , Patrick! You can’t just say shit like that. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Patrick runs a hand down his crumb infested torso and shrugs morosely. He finds a large-ish crumb, lines up his thumb and middle finger, and flicks it. The chip sails straight down between his big toes. Goal. Patrick shrugs again, remembers that Pete had asked him a question, and mumbles, “I dunno.”

“You don’t _know_!”

And wow, Patrick is clearly off his game tonight. Usually his job is calming Pete down, not working him up into the frenzy that’s clearly coming through across the line. He tries to pick up his thoughts even though they feel all splotchy and discordant, like the hours of mindless television he’s been watching have drained all the gray matter from out between his ears.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick sighs, flapping a hand. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I should let you go back to sleep.”

“Please, you both know I’m not sleeping,” snaps Pete. “What the fuck, Stump?”

“I’m just…you know…” Patrick shrugs again helplessly. Not that Pete can see it. He hates this. This putting his feelings into words part. It’s embarrassing. It’s why he so often chooses not to be the one flipping out.

“Yeah, me and my heart attack are going to need more than that,” Pete retorts. His sternness only last a moment or two before he soon comes back, tone thawed. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Patrick bobs his head even though there is no one around to see it. “I’m just— Like, did you know it’s almost Valentine’s Day? Like soon.”

“Uh yeah. The kids did the shoebox thing, you know? They’re doing this drive-by valentines exchange at the school. It’s pretty sweet actually. Kind of like trunk-or-treat but without the candy. We found these retro Star Wars ones for— well, it doesn’t matter. It’s just kid stuff.” Pete clears his throat. “What’s up, Patrick? You still thinking about Elisa?”

The tension in Patrick’s chest that had loosened hearing Pete begin talking about his kids, tightens up at the sound of his ex’s name. “It’s dumb,” he says, breathing harshly from his nose. “We didn’t even have a bad break up. We’re still friends. It’s not like I’m in love with her anymore or anything.”

Pete’s answering hum is just on the side of skeptical. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Patrick nods firmly. “No really. It’s not even about her. It’s just me. My head is all…” He spins a hand. Patrick isn’t really great at phone calls anymore. He should have done this by video. “You know.”

“Heartbroken?”

“Bored.” Patrick drops his hand. “I’m sick of my couch. I’m sick of my house. I haven’t even written anything in like a week.”

“Huh,” says Pete. “That’s new.”

There’s a soft bang on his end. Patrick thinks he was right about Pete being in his kitchen. He’s almost always there when Patrick calls nowadays, or out in his backyard. Patrick’s eyes flit over to the little succulent Pete had mailed over to him months ago. It’s still nestled in its little coffee cup on top of Patrick’s mantlepiece. He’d named it Mr. Suck-u-wentz after the one too many times Pete had corrected Patrick when he called it a cactus. The Mr. was for dignity.

Perhaps the name was a sign that the quarantine had started getting to Patrick earlier than he thought. He would like to think that he wouldn’t come up with a name that juvenile if not under duress. Then again, it’s hard to remember to be mature sometimes around someone he knew as a literal teenager.

“What are you making?”

“Sourdough,” Pete chirps. “I fucked up the timing though, hence the baking in the middle of the night. I thought the internet was lying about it taking a stupid amount of time.”

“Sounds good,” Patrick mumbles and he closes his eyes and tries to picture himself in Pete’s kitchen. It’s not hard. Since Pete’s taken up baking, Patrick’s taken up sitting on his counter as they video call to watch, or perching on a stool at the kitchen island on the few times he’s been over since the pandemic hit.

“Yeah, it better be,” Pete mutters. There’s another banging sound, and then Pete huffs. “‘Kay. It’s in the oven. I’m officially collapsing on the couch now. We’ll see if this was all worth it in like thirty minutes.”

“I’m sure it’ll be good,” Patrick says honestly. Pete had dropped homemade cookies on his doorstep at Christmas. They had still be warm when Patrick had opened the tin.

Just talking to Pete has calmed something in Patrick. He settles more comfortably into his fantasy of Pete’s kitchen. He’s pretty sure it is the weekend, but if Pete is up this late being so noisy then the kids are probably with their mom. He imagines Pete’s got some movie on in the background. Something starring a protagonist with 80s oiled muscles. He thinks of all the little plants that have taken resident in the windowsill of Pete’s kitchen and his growing collection of novelty aprons and smiles to himself. He asks, “What are you wearing?”

Pete coughs. There’s a long pause between that and Pete’s answer. “Uh, what?”

“Shit.” Patrick’s eyes jump open. Heat emanates from his face when he drags his hand down it. “Can we pretend I didn’t just say that? I didn’t just say that.”

Pete giggles. “You so did. Holy crap. I can’t believe you just asked me that. Valentines must actually have you horny has fuck.”

“I didn’t,” Patrick mutters, slamming his hand over his eyes. “I didn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t. Please. Can’t we just say I didn’t?”

“Fuck no, man. I’m going to cherish this moment forever.”

Pete’s giggles escalate alarmingly. Patrick groans.

Abruptly, Pete drops his voice into an exaggerated smolder. “Oh yeah, baby. I love it when you moan like that.”

And that. That’s just not fair. Patrick wants to bury himself alive in the ground for how his dick—previously far, far outside of his current thoughts—perks up at the sound of Pete’s stupid, obnoxious growl.

“I hate you,” Patrick says. He drops his hand from his face to his belly. Which—hello, mistake. His body has a bit too much sensory memory for which direction his hand usually moves from there.

Pete is still laughing at him. “Aw. Don’t be embarrassed, ‘Rickster. We’re musicians. Phone sex is practically a job requirement.”

“So much hatred. Hate hate hate.”

“Flames on the side of your face, yeah?” Pete sounds far too awake and amused for all this. “Are you in bed? Please tell me you’re in bed. And naked. That would make this so much better. Oh my God. Send me a picture.”

“I am not sending you a fucking picture.”

“You’re totally naked. Oh God. Are you really naked? Patrick, seriously?”

“Shut up. I’m on the couch,” Patrick grumbles, “ _and_ I’m in my boxers.”

“Liar.” Pete is breathless in his delight. “You are so totally calling me naked in bed. Are you touching yourself? Like, right now? You so are, aren’t you?”

Patrick chokes as all of the oxygen flees the room. “Um,” stammers Patrick. “Um. I—”

Words have fled Patrick. All of the words. Especially the ones he know he could use to stop this conversation from happening. 

Pete laughs and laughs and then his donkey laughter slowly dies as no words come to interrupt him. In its place creeps in this awkward, ringing silence the longer Patrick goes without responding.

Pete had asked, Are you touching yourself? And it had been a joke. Teasing. Pete’s love language is basically messing with people. And Patrick’s hadn’t been. He hadn’t been touching himself at all, but now he wants to. Badly. His hand skims to the edge of his boxers and pauses there. The other end of the phone is horrifyingly quiet.

“Pete? Um.”

After a moment longer in the terrible, awful quiet, Pete exhales loudly. “ _Shit_. Okay, uh, sorry. That was like a joke. Like, you know that was a joke, right? Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” Patrick’s fingertips are touching the edge of his boxers. He’s inordinately aware of the heat of himself between his thighs. He is definitely freaking out.

“You’re definitely freaking out.”

“Fuck you, Pete.”

“If it helps, I am also on my couch,” offers Pete. He chuckles again, but more out of awkwardness than any real humor. “I’m, uh, wearing an apron. It’s got Vader’s design on it. Like his suit thing. The buttons light up.”

Sadly, the details of Pete’s dumb apron do little to quell the now-solid erection Patrick is rocking against his thigh. “I hate you so much,” he mutters again.

“And I’ve got—hold on, I’m taking my pants off.”

“What!” squawks Patrick. “What the fuck, Pete?”

There’s a disturbing amount of rustling. Patrick’s ears perk up far too much to hear it. Pete’s voice returns shortly. “Okay. So, I’m just in my boxers now too. We’re even.”

They are so far from being even. Patrick’s skin is buzzing. “Are _you_ touching yourself too?” Patrick snaps back.

He sucks in a breath at the exact same time Pete does.

“Uh, too?” The nervous giggle has returned to Pete’s voice. It seems less amused and than more a little hysterical. “Patrick, are you really—”

“No.”

“But you. You said—”

“Don’t, Pete. Please don’t.”

“But you just said—“

“Oh God. You’re insane.” Patrick groans, sinking down against the couch. He forces himself to look away from his growing kitchen fantasies with Pete, hoping that seeing his dim living room with shock him back to reality. It doesn’t. He shakes his head. “We’re in a band, Pete. We’re best friends. We are not doing this.”

There another long pause. He hears Pete’s giggles peter out. The line is filled with shaky breathing.

“Doing what?” Pete asks softly.

“Don’t.”

“What are we doing, Patrick?”

“Pete.”

“What? You haven’t even answered the question yet.”

Patrick closes his eyes. Sighs. Bites his lip. Squirms. His mind flashes back to nights in vans and busses and hotel rooms, pretending not to hear what he hears, not to see what he catches in glimpses, not picture what he imagines. It’s as impossible as nothing thinking of pink elephants. This moment has been trembling in the airways Patrick’s mind for as long as he can remember.

His next breath feels huge when he takes it. He says, “Neither have you.”

He hears Pete’s breath catch. “I— yeah, okay. Okay. Yeah.” Pete speaks quickly, nervously. It’s infectious.

“Pete?”

Sounds that can only be described as clothes rustling come across the phone, followed swiftly by a breathy sigh. Arousal so brutal it bends his spine hits Patrick.

“Are you…?” Patrick can’t even name it. He can’t believe this, even as he clings to his phone with one hand while he digs his nails into his belly with the other.

“I don’t—Fuck, I don’t know, Patrick. I just. You asked. You said. Come on.”

There’s something heady in Pete’s voice. Something new that makes sparks run down Patrick’s fingertips.

He doesn’t think any thoughts beyond the sound of Pete’s breathing in his ear. He knows that kind of breathing. He’s been eavesdropping on it for decades.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Shit.” Patrick shoves his hand down his boxers, hissing through his teeth when he finally wraps his hand around himself. “Fuck.”

Pete giggles. Giggles! “Yeah. Yeah, Patrick. You gotta—You gotta answer the question, Patrick.”

“What question?”

“You know the one.” Pete’s voice drops again. His breath shudders across the phone. Patrick thinks he can hear other sounds—rhythmic sounds—just in the background. He strains his ears to hear. “Are you touching yourself? Right now? Are you?”

Patrick grits his eyes together and shakes his head. His dick is hot in his hand. He’s so hard gripping himself is almost painful. “You first, asshole.”

Pete breathes out through his nose. “Yeah, I’m—Shit, Patrick, I’m fucking—I’m fucking hard right now. I’m jerking myself so hard.”

Patrick squeezes himself his eyes closed tight, then this cock. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. You’ve got to—I can hear you.”

Pete groans. “God. Me too.”

The sound of their hands speeding up fills the phone. Patrick chases the hitches in Pete’s breathing like they’re a siren’s call. His hand works so fast it’s starting to chafe now. He’s not usually this rough on himself.

He pauses just long enough to bring his hand up and lick his palm, only to startle at Pete’s moan in his ear.

“God, are you—Was that your mouth?” Pete gasps. “Holy shit. Would you? _Fuck_. Suck your fingers, Patrick. I want to hear you.”

Patrick doesn’t have room in his had left for shame or second guessing. It’s so much better to just shove two fingers past his lips because Pete told him so, losing himself in the soft, warm sensation of his own mouth. He knows what Pete wants to hear and he obliges. He pumps the fingers in and out of his mouth, wet and messy, eyelids fluttering when Pete makes this little desperate sound.

“Fuck.” Pete breathes. “Oh, man. Okay. Okay. Enough. I’m gonna come. Wrap your fingers around your cock. Come on. Come on. I want us to come together.”

Spit strings from his fingers when Patrick pulls them out, trailing across his chin. It’s messy and gross and so much better when he wraps his slick palm back around his dick.

“Fuck. Pete!”

“Yeah,” grunts Pete. “That’s right. I’m gonna—I’m gonna come right down your throat. Shit. I’m gonna hold you down and fuck your mouth and—”

Whatever else Pete is going to do is lost on Patrick as his climax hits. Pete makes a strangled sound and follows him the next second and Patrick works himself through his orgasm to the time of Pete’s startled gasping.

In the minute or so it takes to come down, they lay there not speaking. Patrick hears nothing but the pounding of his own heart and the shudder of Pete’s breathing. What settles between them in the silence that follows is nothing short of painful.

“Um,” Patrick manages, having coughed and cleared his throat and felt like an idiot wiping dried spit from his chin. “Uh, Pete?”

Pete breathes out heavily in his ear. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. That was…”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees.

“You were—” Pete starts, and his voice is low, husky, like they just played a whole show, “Patrick, that was really—”

“You too.”

There’s another long pause between them. Patrick’s heart rate slowly comes back down to something close to normal. He shifts on the couch and feels the wetness in his boxers and the crumbs still on his chest and none of it feels at all sexy on this side of his orgasm.

Across the line, in a small voice that says Pete must be coming down in to the same reality, Pete asks, “Patrick, did I just fuck up?”

“No,” Patrick sighs. “No. Or if you did, then we both did.”

“You told me to stop though.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It’s honest enough some of the awkwardness eases between them. Patrick sighs again and sits himself up, brushing off his chest as he does and grimacing at the general state of grime on his body.

“Okay, I should go,” Patrick decides. “It’s late. I need to take a shower.”

“Right,” Pete agrees quickly. “Right, yeah. I’ve got the—the bread’s gotta be almost done soon anyway.”

Patrick hesitates. “We could talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah?”

There is something still fragile in Pete’s voice, half-hopeful half—well, they both know how that goes. Patrick feels the same thing rattling around in his own chest. That just cements it.

“I’ll come over,” he says firmly. “We can talk then.”

“Talk,” repeats Pete. He still sounds small. “Right.”

Patrick shakes his head. It’s easy to be brave in the rare moments when Pete isn’t. It’s how they work.

“We’ll talk,” Patrick says. “It’ll be good. Trust me. You can make me pancakes.”

It’s immensely relieving to hear Pete laugh. “You want me to make you pancakes?” he asks incredulously. “Really?”

Patrick doesn’t let himself blush. “Or something fancy. I don’t care. Don’t act like you haven’t been begging me to come over and taste test things for months.”

“Oh, I’ll give you something to taste test, Stump,” Pete declares, bold and familiar and sort of stupidly hot.

Patrick snorts. “That was terrible, Pete.”

“You can’t call my sex jokes terrible, Patrick,” says Pete, and he is laughing for real again. “Not when you just—”

“Okay! _Aaand_ I am hanging up now.”

“No, wait, wait.” Pete makes an effort to stifle his rediscovered amusement. “Don’t hang up yet.”

“We can talk tomorrow, Pete. I really do need a shower. I’m all…couched. It’s gross.”

“You’re gross,” Pete shoots back, but that’s just habit. “I just gotta ask,” he adds quickly. “Don’t laugh, but I have to do it. I just have to. Patrick, will you be my valentine?”

Pete is too earnest for it not to be half-a-joke, but Patrick knows that’s only a part of it. He knows that if he were looking at Pete know, the expression on his face would be real. Still, Patrick laughs and rolls his eyes and smiles too fondly.

“I don’t even know what day it is today,” Patrick says.

“It’s the thirteenth,” Pete returns promptly. “Valentine’s is tomorrow.”

“Today then,” corrects Patrick, glancing at the clock.

“Yeah,” says Pete and then he waits.

Patrick doesn’t really know what this is yet. He’s got an inkling of an idea—a fantasy maybe, one he’s been hiding away for years and years now—but the reality of it is brand new. Shiny. It makes him shiver as he breathes it in.

“Yeah, you sap,” he finally says. “I’ll be your valentine.”

Pete’s answering smile is audible through the phone line. “Hey, Patrick.”

“What?” Patrick whispers back.

“I’m really glad you called.”

Patrick is still grinning when he hangs up, warm in his skin even under the mess. He’s really glad he called too.


End file.
